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Yucky Chucky Tucker

Yucky Chucky Tucker was smelly as can be,
he never took a bath and hardly ever brushed his teeth.
Everywhere he went he left an odor in the air,
and Yucky Chucky Tucker never combed his hair.
His hands were always ***** cause he played with stinky worms,
he never cared if he got sick, he wasn't afraid of germs.
He didn't have a lot of friends except for one or two,
till Yucky Chucky Tucker met little Linda Sue.
Linda was quite pretty, an awesome sight to admire
and Yucky Chucky Tucker would give anything to sit by her.
But he'd have to make some changes and what I mean by that,
Yucky Chucky Tucker would have to take a bath.
He'd have to wash his hands and scrub his ***** face,
and to clean his stained up yellow teeth would take a tube of paste.
He'd have to wash his hair at least a dozen times,
to remove the terrible build up of sticky greasy grime.
Then Yucky Chucky Tucker would have to change his clothes,
sprinkle on cologne and find a bright red rose.
And maybe if he's lucky little Linda Sue,
might take another look at him and think he's really cute.
Funny how a pretty girl can change the way you think,
cause even Yucky Chucky Tucker washed away his stink,
All to catch the eye of little Linda Sue,
besides, her daddy owned a toy store, now what's a boy to do?

Written By  Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
chainedwhore Dec 2014
Well I'm here .... It's grose and ***** ....
My job is crystal clear!!!

I need to get this place back in shape...
I can't believe they live like this...
Like they're in the jungle living like some ape !!

I can't stand dirt and clutter and yucky grose walls....
I'm a germaphobe and cleanliness calls!!
They're pigs
cynthia Jul 2013
dark clouds fill the sweet summer sky while i continue
to wonder why the grounds have been pummeled
with water for days now
my mind yearns to sit out on the warm grassy ground; i
want to feel the earth below me spin deep deep down
where the rocks are born

i decide to bore something of my own
out of boredom out of desire
because ive been awake for less than an hour
the weather is discouraging and i want sleep
alas! a day would go wasted and around these parts
within my heart
i cannot let that happen!

excited as i am also impatient my liquid like child
takes a minute
in the minute, maybe two realization sets in
where is everybody?
alone as i am also cold my loneliness surely soon
will also grow old. as did my minute
it passed and my excitement grows into
satisfaction

the ground up and watered down soul
of the coffee bean
oh what a wonderful thing! it fills me up greatly
and causes me to empty, unfortunately, more than occasionally
but my spirits are high! my energy, higher
and i can't find anything to do

my veins scream for heightened blood pressure,
a faster heart beat
the jitters have taken over, my feet remain cold
alas still, time just grows older and older
yearning to be filled with actions and words
sunshine and warmth
but i have been robbed

the dark clouds in the sky are threatening.
intimidating.
i can hear the army of H two OH gathering for attack
upon the earth below
do you think they're laughing? surely they know
what sadness they cause on a day that should be beautiful
on a day where our father sun wants to show us his love
right? surely, they know.

*ode to coffee
on a mucky yucky day
an entrapment of a sort. Lovely, to say the least
Ron Tranmer Nov 2011
They say two birds in a bush
is better than one in hand.
Here’s the simple logic.
just so you understand…

Bird **** is, if you don’t know,
a yucky, gooey stink.
That’s why better in a bush…
don’t you really think?

Let them **** in bushes
that are very far away.
In a hand - is not that grand..
That’s all I have to say.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
one - i don't understand why saying "it's the 21st century" is somehow seen as a compensation for 20 centuries of our inhumanity, or a case of: only improvements reside in us - seems just as false to say - men can overcome angels, as stated by the first Christians... yeah, we can do miracles with technology and ultra-secular communication dynamics - discarding the existence of such beings resulted in hen parties with plastic wings and halos... what a great method to discard such being, and subsequently appropriate their features, if ever needed, but altogether unnecessary... two - that disrespecting heterosexuality aligned with the power of science has made it altogether a pointless endeavour in re-enacting the monogamous nature of swans: if we can breed the many perversions, ahem, deviations, we surely require en equal share of respect, before science undermines any deviations into an economic format of breeding pure heterosexual contingencies... three: who the hell said i was throwing anyone off a roof? i was just curious about the slack pressurising the alias big brother / grey matter dictator into teaching us language, then to later make us into a Koranic cyclops or having to sway one side, but not the other, teaching us vocabulary in school, but robbing us of a fluidity of language beyond school, in society... any rational man would say: just teach me the knuckle, the stone and the stick to express my manners... because, to be frank, i'm not into faking being civilised, just teach me to be a barbarian from the start, don't dangle the magic carrot in front of my eyes when it's a fake... teach me the barbarism you want to suppress later on in life: i'm not into being Dolly 2.3419, and an attache to a sheepdog for herding purposes to take it up the **** and shut up: because a member of Parliament did it to me aged 14; for example.

subjectivity is doubled attacked, it's not the merely rationalist
approach of an objective side of things,
i could understand tiresome efforts
Chinese politics while walking
the tourist plot on the great wall -
in a society that's seismically acknowledging
social or whatever coherence,
i find it a bit of limbo of paraphrasing
trans - or trans-physics, or the active
way to usurp metaphysics, by deviating
from thought as an activity, and more
how words are sense datum co-ordinates
that are like dictators: because it just, feels,
funny, and, offensive. ***** vocabulary,
that's what i call it... after a while you concentrate
on what ****** you off, first the educational
autocracy teaches you a vocabulary,
then come the St. Thomas' terrorists with:
you need to revise your vocabulary...
like **** that'll happen, you don't own
language, i don't own language, you're
little fascist agenda to censor such awoke
the boy that was supposed to wake Barbarossa
from his slumber with the cry: crows! crows!
a cloud of crows! funny how the eagle is a
failed emblem for empires, and the crow isn't...
mind you, the English succeeded with
an empire half-and-half: a lion and a unicorn...
i'd guess as much with a monkey and
a centaur, or at least a Cerberus - something
mythical - well, sure, the Poles are attacked
in Britain... but ever hear about the Scot
being attacked in an English village?
a Scot was attacked just the other day,
because kilts were deemed offensive...
so trans-gender is good, meta-gender is:
had a wee t'ink 'bout it...
   robots start with the pronoun use: one...
royalty start with the pronoun use: we...
                 and in between we have paranoid
they and we... and insecure you and i -
or as e. e. cummings would have it:
    *i say no world
                 can hold a you
   shall see the not
             because
  and why but
                          (who
        -
true, but as much of not is entanglement
              with knots - or ought to tries -
  to not or to knot and be -
                              Shakespeare also said:
  funny how i was born neo-liberal,
millennial tattooed - and fake-left...
   i hear the right is a tsunami of focus these days,
all the generation Z are buying into
obstructing gay-marriage, and are adamant
   on not abusing pronouns - hence the current
revival in grammar school education in England -
they don't drink, i.e.: taking psychopathic gambles,
they're prone to social-media overdoses
rather than succumbing to excess ecstasy and palpitation:
i had 190 "friends"... let's just call them vantage points...
   sheered that social media sheep: only 13 left...
but at least objectivity outright says:
       subjectivity is subhuman, science taught us
that subjectivity is the fire between two flint stones,
all in all necessary - but objectivity said:
             two flints! two flints! no fire!
what attacks subjectivity is not objectivity,
it's satire... to humanise everything: good or bad,
with a standard of humour... well... telling a sad
joke to later tell the same sad joke by satirising it...
punch in a face; because there are only so number of
things that are funny in life... the English language
doesn't seem to understand that even the odd chance
of black humour, will not lift the spirits of those,
who, quiet frankly, don't want to be humoured...
the only humour left is not to provision the public
with barbaric satire, sometimes empathy will do,
because it's emphatic humour,
   it's Godot's roundabout humour: the shared experience.
laughing for the sake of laughing is
             a cry from apathy's lost interest in
being pardonably dasein - laughing at all the truthful
autobiographic desecrate is apathy's last
chance to impress: but how foul it all sounds by then...
   the western version of buddhism suddenly feels like
  a taste of pears in november: not sour, not bitter...
just maggoty foul - yucky goo
                  of a plum-shaded rouse of the skin
tinged hue after contact with knuckle and knee.
  but they attacked a ******* Scot in an English village,
because of a kilt...
                                   he knows the strand of ganging up
in hyena numbers and then the celebratory drink
of compensating conscience - they'll sooner accept
     a trans-gender dunno'h than a hot-blooded
heap of tartan - ever ask the homosexuals what
they think of St. Thomas' gospel?
              i think: too much, too early, too innocently.
and if they tell you: speak differently!
they will, i'm ****** sure they will want to
control your grammar without any specialisation -
you'll wonder: summer in Syria?
                     because as racism goes,
they attack the difference, and the difference is only
skin deep, like they did with the Afros of Kentucky,
the Kentucky Afros will spring right back,
    because the abuse was only skin deep,
therefore their soul was enlarged, and they'll
play the blues, and the jazz, and rap, and break-dance...
but if the abuse goes to the depth of soul...
in that it's soul-deep...
                                and because it's white v. white...
it will ferment, and nothing positive will come from it...
no jazz, no blues... nothing of cultural importance...
   it will be haggled in the political market
to the point where both sides will find it utterly
unbearable: and then start to sheer their skins...
        you won't get anything from this soul-deep
attack... if the holocaust is what it felt like,
            then this is a minor post-holocaust episode,
a reminder...
                          and by god, i thank god
for the fact that the Picts are involved -
                                                            whe­re to now?
O Imperium Gladstone paraphrase?
                            it will be hard to beat the unicorn -
all empires donning the eagle duly fail -
centaur and a frog? maybe next time.
L B May 2019
The critters got my trash last night
Left it on the deck
forgotten
Till the ones with night shine
in their eyes
feasted between
cat litter, coffee grounds
chicken bones and wraps
A lovely chore to start the day
before sunlight and my coffee
picking through the mess
What I really want to do
is plant
tomatoes, spices, squash, and
Packman broccoli
things that grow
delicious
in sunlight

I suppose that raccoon
feels the lucky, yucky same
about good fortune of my trash
Same
about the moonlight
that he dines by
What's happening to all of us? The so-called generation of tomorrow?
Don't you remember how we used to be?
Before we all grew up, swearing that when we're "big" we're never going to smoke or drink?
That boys were yucky and girls had Germs?
Remember how carefree we all used to be? It didn't matter to us what people said or even what they thought. We didn't care if our hair got wet or a stain got on to our clothes.

Now we've turned everything around, never meaning the words that we said. Its as if every memory of who we were, has shattered, into tiny bits of pieces.
Remember the dreams we had when we were young? The morals and virtues we swore we'd never rid of, holding on to these for dear life, yes still we threw them away.

The people we are, the children we used to be, now a totally new adolescent. A conjunction of minuscule parts of both  our past and present.

Remember the days we all were friends, no backstabbing, no lies, and complete honestly.

Sharing the humour, not hiding the facts, lived life freely, what happened to us? What happened to the people we used to be?

The all grew up that's what happened I guess, but now barely recognisable. The little child still somewhere deep in the interior of the hard outside we've formed.

Making ourselves to seem like we're stubborn, matured adults, when that's really what we're not.
We're a mixture of what we all used to be and a huge part made up of what we've been through.
All our experiences, both good and bad. All our dreams, some nourished since we were young, and others newly spurted. Our decisions to give in to peer pressure, or resist temptation. Our choices. Our friends, the ones that uplift is and the ones that have torn us down. Our family, the ones who loved us and the ones who have hurt us. Our education, tons of learning experiences. Our relationships, that all formed our inner beings more intricate than all of the above. Our emotions leading us and misleading us to where we might or might not end up . Look, i'm not saying all these things determine where we end up but they sure do influence it.

And that's what happened to us.

That is what we've become and that's what we are. That's made up all the parts of who we really are.

What's happened to us, I repeatedly ask , though the answer, it seems so clear.

Hard to accept, what we've become and who we strive to be.
Samm Marie Apr 2017
When diseased with painful coughs
Or any sort of ailment
I become a small child again
Claiming the world is acting
Yicky
It feels yucky in my throat and I want to cry
The uckiness is too overwhelming
And I think my childish nature
That reappears in the midst of
Germs and ickiness
Is trying to tell me that
Some people are just giant germs
Trying to get me sick
st64 May 2013
Three-legged spider on a ***** tile
Eyeball rolls, clean in hand
Massive metal door opens, up top a hill
Graveyard of ever-ringing cells.

What's real creepy to you?

Enclose the city, lock us out ..for good
Condemned as doomed, living dead
Big guns survive in metallic domes
See the crass ******* shoot us down!

Wanna talk about what's creepy, huh?

Plunderers now lay down new laws
Can't fight the sick, red sway
Random acts of violence bay
Armoured eyes see all from lofty towers.

Creepy autocrats hide the truth, right?

No soaring when blood runs rivers
Tripping over rotting corpses
Decaying stench of hope dying
Help will come, we must believe!

Do you believe lies to your face?

Infrastructure's down, no services
Power's out, no more flushing
Car carcasses aflame on every corner, yet
How come big brother's eyes still move?

Are the gullible ones really stupid and feeble?

Sun shines, but nothing grows
Rain seeps red away into sewers
Crops of twisted metal, hoards of guns
Skeletal trees adorn our landscape.

Why hold askance your glance skyward?

The gates will open to let us in
Surely, they witness our hardship!
There must exist a life beyond this strife
Uproar, bombard, gas, artillery....then no more....

Can you ever cease to have temerity?

In face of adversity, calamity and injustice
We should NEVER cease to be exasperated!
Hope must prevail; faith must live;
Thoughts expressed; love and respect must survive.

Can you afford your spirit just to let go....?

Think about it. Creepy autocrats eternally rank ...

Chronically..........Insidious
Repressively........Deleterious
Egotistically.........Inadequate
Eruptively............Odious
Pretentiously.......Tedious
Yucky...................****!


S T, 31 May 2013
Down with those who think they can control people; fed up with ...systems!
Written in Jan 2013.

Inspired (partly) by movie "Doomsday".



sub-entry:

'fool'

don'tcha go tryna control me, sucker
I'm-a kick yer *** fer you, fool!


(need I say more? lol)
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy
-
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!
Àŧùl Feb 2015
Always it does,
But I can't shiver,
Coldest in the river,
Deathly river of tears,
Excruciating is the pain,
Filthy salty water it flows,
Grandiose in society kills me,
Hefty personal problems prey,
I can't swallow so I don't eat any,
****** of ego I turn into since long,
Killed me multiple times in a go daily,
Lovelorn I die each moment I try to cry,
Mouthful of unfriendly words help me die,
Name of mine means incomparable literally,
Ostensible concept of love entices me so much,
Put me in a jail and stuff me behind the bars now,
Quailing me is the loneliness that has been forever,
Ruling out few occasions of company I stay so aloof,
Sparing some days of happiness most are depressing,
Toying with my own heart I feel my heart is hydrogen,
Unattractive it is not & it could not stay segregated ever,
Volumes of my voice have died out & so has my hearing,
Wailing deep in my heart I let this sorrow seep in to sink,
Xenophobic I ain't but of course I dislike enemies of love,
Yucky thoughts of people assassinated my love last night,
Zeroed in on the catalyst -strange enough- she herself is it.
She has no idea that what hurt me,
But it's okay because she is not lonely.

I don't feel self-pity because I can't,
I just hate the 7th of May, 2010.

I should have died back then,
It would have been a lot peaceful.

My HP Poem #770
©Atul Kaushal

Only 7 more poems till I take a long leave.
Rubber duck, rubber ducky
You stay with me,
Even when the water's yucky.

Rubber duck, rubber ducky
your yellow skin bumps, and rubs me.

Mr. Duck, Mr. Hug me
You speak, more than a squeak, saying
"The waters calming, not alarming"

Rubber duck, rubber ducky
Stay with me. Even when the water turns ******.
jeremy wyatt Mar 2011
Mali the tabby was out for stroll, the evening sun was easing down and her whiskas biscuits were gone from her tummy, at least enough for her to feel like some activity was justified.
The meadow over the big wall smelled good, flowers and warmth and enough life flying around to interest a playful hunter, she mused to herself.
Up! Over the wall in a single fluid action, unaware how perfect she always flowed, like oil on marble.
Into the wee forest, tall flowers, watch the stingy plants, rub her cheeks on the sweet ones to stake her claim, then off to butterflies and fun!
Wait though, what is this smell?
Warm and young, hmm.. her instincts kicking in, she crept belly-flat to the source of the scent. Something like a wee rabbit, those yucky things! This was different,  this was small and alone, and still in a grass hollow.
She quietly put her graceful neck out, and opened her mouth to grasp and taste,
but leapt back as a shadow fell beside her, and she jumped again as a touch was upon her head. She struck quickly, but only got air and grass.
Breathing hard she reversed till she saw her challenger, something like her human, but tiny, with a bright silver thing in her hand and.....wings?...

Mali here I stand with you
in this field beneath the blue
I feel your huntress heart inside
but if you leap I will not hide
Take a mouse or take a rat
chase a rabbit brown and fat
but if you try to hurt my hare
you had better take some care
I guard them with my fairy kind
the young ones here for me to mind
and to you in this pleasent field
I promise you I will not yield
The hares are age old fairy friends
and to the last we will defend
so Mali think on this a while
make a choice and make me smile

Mali thought for a wee while, washing her mouth, watching this wee creature from under her half-closed eyelids. So, this was a fairy...well she smelled nice, and reninded her off her little human children who loved to play. Hmmm...

I'm sorry that I came to fast
with thought of food a sweet repast
now here I see you small and strong
to fight you would be hard and long
so let us make a pact today
in this field you let me play
we can learn to always share
the meadow fairy cat and hare
what duty hares have done for you
I cannot guess but hold it true
that when you claim to hold them dear
I shall repect them always here

Leipsha the wee fairy took her turn to think, she knew the cat was honest, all tabbies tell the truth and this one smelt kind for a cat..

Come then now we have a deal
but think we need something to seal
our words of grace we swapped today
and cats of all the creatures play
So follow me across the hill
we will have a chase and thrill
meet the hares and watch them run
race them and enjoy the fun

So when in the lowland meadow you see
hares and tabby cat running free
squint and look close all around
for a fairy is guarding them on the ground
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
title: loop
body:
or holes or days
and oh: or months...
let's pretend years
never existed.

sometimes, it's truly weird... but i'm not English... or British... sure... for convenience's sake, when asked by officials in the NHS... put me down at white British... once was the case of the Anglo-Saxons... well... at best i'm an Anglo-Slav... but i can't allow all these racial "minorities" residing in England to label with me... "reparations"... a "colonial-past"... or... post-colonialism, or whatever the fetish is... i just belong to a people without a colonial past... sorry... that's racist... to be unable to differentiate people ethnically... it simply is... that's how H'america rots... it has no ethnicity distinction... it's either all RACE or ***... can't tell apart the Serb fascists from the Ukrainian fascists?! i can't buy into this whole: i'm white therefore i'm somehow also the inheritor of post-colonialism... i'm on side with the Russians given this argument... sorry... i'm not having it... that's ******* racist: just because i'm white is somehow indicative of me receiving the minority sadism against the British in the realm of post-colonialism... **** no... **** never...you will not put other people's history onto other people: because you're ethnically-blind... just because i'm as white as a Brit doesn't imply we share a shared history... ****-off cupper-neck... come come... milk me the golden **** of Moloch! right now... i'm loving the Russian attitude of... *******... or we'll **** with you...because it simply doesn't make sense for certain ethnicities of the white race to... capitulate to the "racial minorities" of a post-colonial argumentation of: new schematics of how society's to be orientated... nicely... just nicely... i'm seriously thinking about ******* off to Liverpool... the women seem nicer... less paranoid... less-stuck... less... ugh... yucky... itchy... whatever it is with having... over-value delusions of... obviously having bypassed the safety-net of becoming a nun...

the day started well enough... i must have drunk about half
a litre of whiskey: forgetting to take some naproxen
to ease me into sleep.. woke up with cold sweats
at: some time just past 5am...
some nightmare... Holocaust related? i don't remember...
but if you're waking up sweating and shivering
at the same time... lucky for me... i meditated on this towards
work: well... the horrifying has already happened...
i never understood the argument that 6 millions Jews
died in the Holocaust... technically... those were 6 million
Polacks... while France capitulated to **** Germany
in whatever span of time...
  it took longer for Poland to capitulate to both:
**** Germany and Soviet Russia... and we're talking:
a nation that only recently emerged after being non-existent
given the partitions... while France... a colonial power...
anyway... had two coffees... a precursor of a bad idea:
showered... applied 7 different "beautifying" products
to my hair, beard, face... armpits... collar bones and neck
and hands...
   ****** off... as ever... one hour early:
why do i mismatch my timing whenever travelling to
Wembley... if i catch the fast (Southend Victoria train)
i can get from Romford to Liverpool Street in under 20 minutes...
since... the train doesn't stop at: Chadwell Heath,
Goodmayes, Seven Kings, Ilford, Manor Park, Forest Gate...
Maryland... straight onto Stratford...
and then Liverpool Street... and then that's another
20 or so minutes on the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
well... nice weather... spring is in full swing...
another two coffees from McDonald's... sitting on a bench
on the Olympic route...
eating an almond croissant... oh looky-looky...
company... starlings...
                        i was surprised: where did the pigeons *******
to? so i'm going to be sitting on this bench
by myself... drinking a 4th coffee... eating an almond
croissant... smoking a cigarette after the "feast" while
having this troop of 4 or 5 starling beg me to pinch
of my croissant... ****'s sake: the day is starting to look
beautiful... i couldn't resit...
plus... there's that added bonus of looking mythical...
eh? even mystical... since a few coworkers already spotted
you and you're not some old man in a park
throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons...
you're throwing pinches of an almond croissant to starlings...
i always said: better a soul of an old man
in a young body than... the complete ******* opposite
of... whatever leads to dementia: lax...
old men having tantrums of teenagers...
                       just looks silly... and it was sort of like
that today... with the Scousers... Scouse...
   i was expecting such a lively, lovely atmosphere...
i swear... the further north you go... the lovelier people
become... my heart poured out at the Liverpool fans...
the Manchester fans? eh... not so much...
they're sort of like Londoners... stiff-upper lip: tense...
paranoid... i don't know how to describe them:
proper... after today i'm thinking about visiting Liverpool...
******* for the weekend... maybe book a ticket
at Anfield... but just go and see the city... wander...
get lost... find myself...
        i'm tired of continental Europe... then again:
i'm also tired of the south of England...
           4th coffee in... i thought i was going to die...
a thumping in my forehead... i already have high blood pressure
issues... four coffees in... almost zero food:
calorie intake: for someone 6ft2 and 98kg... it's not 2000kcal...
for the first time on a shift
i had to do my jacket up so that my neck would
be covered... the tie was suffocating me...
with ideas of dropping dead from a heart-attack...
thrice prone to *****... the one time i did i enacted
being a cow... i swallowed it back down... crummy...
eh... flakey... sort of like when you...
bring back milk that's half digested: when it splits...
into cheese and lactose juice... acid...
on my way back home: a most glorious full moon...
cider... sweaty shirt...
and this... fiddly ******* the Metrpolitan line...
mixed-race... sort of reminded of Harley Dean...
fiddling with her blonde-tinged curly hair...
i always found curly hair... um... hmm...
too infatuating... she does her make-up...
her lips with a crayon and then some quasi-lipstick...
cute nose, cute forehead...
and she just keeps looking at me...
with the most doe-esque intimidation of:
          why don't you react to me?! why?! why?!
she's so ******* blatant: she can't hide it...
i'm sitting there with my shirt undone...
   oh right... hairy chest of a pirate... thick bulging neck...
babe... i'm tired... i've been up since 5am...
started the shift at 9m... just finished come 6:30pm...
of course i'm *****... ever time i become tired
i need to relax: since i've been keeping this hardened
**** in my ****-pocket since this morning...
i'll get back home... sit on the thrones
and do the no. 1, 2 and 3... which is **** while sitting
down... relaxing my ****... taking a ****
and subsequently jerking off...
but she was so blatant... d'uh... pretending to look
into the glass behind me for her reflection...
checking her phone without taking a selfie...
how her hair would look better arranged if she
has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head...
truly... a pretty little number...
but i was already coming down from a high of:
Scouser women... are all the English girls so pretty
up north? like i said: i think i need to take a weekend
trip to Liverpool... or Newcastle...
i was taking aback when a married woman
approach me... started talking... gripped my hand and
then proceeded to kiss my cheek...
infatuated by the beard...
  that's nice... that's why life is worth living...
random strangers... coming up to you: infatuated
by your presence... having no reservations:
no inhibitions... needing to kiss you... touch you...
always with the northern types...
and i'd agree... southerners: the fairies...
Londoners... so ******* Victorian: reserved...
it's like playing poker 24/7...
   most of the time i find myself of keeping a trustworthy
line of conversation... i just become mute:
bored... i don't like the nitty-gritty of small talk...
what the **** do we have in common?!
absolutely nothing... beside... what?
trying to keep each other comfortable?
no... i'll use my silence to strain the fact that:
we're not friend in school playground... we're not...
but it's different with northeners...
i witnessed two grown men... cry... because they
were refused entry for being sick... puking...
grown men crying... because they couldn't be part
of the Liverpool choir of: you're never stand alone...
mind you... coworkers getting ****...
deservedly: too eager... too eager... push and shove...
can't we just talk? once you get that *******'s worth
of an SIA license you start losing the plot...
machismo... ugh... talking about people who can't
tell the difference from judo from throwing
watermelons...
oh but these northern girls... a married woman
just walk up to you... tipsy... tipsy as:
custard is most definitely pale, high noon sun
yellow... grabs your hand and kisses your cheek...
times like this: i feel... gratefully alive...
it's so very little but at the same time: so much...
i can forget the 5am wake up call...
of the nightmare that stirred me...
i couldn't possibly cry over football...
something beautiful, like Prokofiev? sure...
lucky for me we managed to seize about 10 cans of beer
from someone... who managed to bring those cans
of beer home? moi...
beer... relaxing to some Type O Negative...
i'm pretty sure there was this other woman
on the train: fixated on playing with her...
she kept stroking it... stroking it...
some other day...
like a cat with an itchy scalp... what the **** do they call them?
archetypical clues?
i heard that once... if a woman in your vicinity is
fiddling with her hair... she's into you...
i seriously want to forget these stereotypes...
i prefer the more direct approach...
she comes up to you: a complete stranger
and kisses your on your furry cheek...
it might have been sunny... it might have been warm
today... but the tenderness of those lips...
i need to book a weekend break to Liverpool...
seriously... i need to visit Liverpool...
those woman are insatiable! i need to ******* to Liverpool!
i already can't stand the claustrophobically
constipated London girls...
   it does my head in!
            what happened to: perchance: some... foon?!
on a *****-nilly... what the **** is this?
the ******* Black Dahlia... no... wait...
the Black Narcissus nunnery? the ******* hills are full
of music?! or is that... filled, with?!
this is a trajectory toward a death-cult...
o.k. whatever... i'm getting slowly more drunk
and relaxed and... not in the mood of...

whatever... i just can't face up to having to faces...
it's enough that i already juggle two tongues...
but i can't face up to having two faces;
i see people taking themselves overtly seriously
and i'm thinking about... puking:
and then swallowing the puke that doesn't leave
my mouth... like a cow's digestive schematic.
RatQueen Aug 2023
Big
My doctor says that I'm too fat
He never stops his barking
He may be right at the end of the day
But despite it all I'm starving

I have a hole inside me
I used to quell with spirits
I stopped but they still haunt me
They'll **** me, so I fear it

******* used to cure this all
but no one could keep up
then one day I felt all yucky
abandoned all pursuits of "love"

I had a year way back when
Where all I did was party
I stuck weird things up my nose
But I ran out of money

When I was a teenager
my dad called me a *****
I got upset and cut myself
but quickly I grew bored

I drove fast around tight corners
to feel the breeze on warm damp nights
but today behind a wheel
I feel paralyzed

My doctor says to stab myself
so I don't eat too much
maybe if I'm smaller
I won't cringe when I am touched

But even as I sit here
and to food I feel averse
I know deep down inside myself
I'll always have this curse

I wonder what I'll crave now
these meds they make me sick
maybe just attention
will be how I get my kicks

I was once the right shape
it wasn't long ago
and even then I noticed
how people come and go

Will I ever feel full
to the wind I'm *******
I take up all this space
and still there's something missing
Ma Cherie Oct 2016
Wait, hold on,
what'd you just say?
hold on a sec,
I don't think I heard you,
& anyway
can you repeat that again?
say,
AGAIN my "friend"?
saaaay what!?

You cannot be serious.
Not cool,
I got your "number "

Let me dig the wax out of my ears,
If I think I heard that correctly,
well,
perhaps you better tell
& retell
me just ...one ...more ...time,
paaaleeease, be real
are you.... for REAL?

Ummm no,
don't know how to break this to you
but ain't gonna happen,
maybe you just need to speak up,
am I,
going deaf?
Are you???
I need to write this **** down,
so I can,

BELIEVE it & then I can,
retrieve it,
Not OK, EVER,
Not gonna happen, not NEVER
& it shouldn't either,

If I wanted someone I would let 'em know
No it ain't no kinda striptease girly show
& boy you just gotta go,

My right hand has an really bad itch
& my left eye has a really bad twitch
it ain't I'm a fool
& I ain't no really bad *****
I could be if I'm forced
I could be a REALLY bad witch

Me, cast a spell?
Why I'll never, ever tell,
Hey what's that smell?
Your just ROTTEN
to the core I said I before
soon you'll be forgotten,

I might be right handed,
but the left one demanded,

& right here's a door,
but my left is unlucky
itching is just very, very sucky
no it isn't just ducky,
way way more than simply
ucky yucky
****

A sticky icky sitch,
Grandmother told me
watch the signs
as they will remind,
& I wish she could just hold me
&  if she could just scold me
I'm just very glad she told me
& told me,

You speak of being "professional"
& I most definitely am,
my field of work requires it,
so does life, love & everything valuable,
like poetry,

Except you're not laughing
I'm not either,
no, no, no, not funny
at ALL,
my name isn't "Charlita" either,
you musta gotta a lotta nerve,
boy, you
must got a huge set
of *****
act like a filthy bull
hung like a proverbial horse
( cuz I hear your not )
& of course, of course,
of course,
I hope you like 'em too,
cuz you're gonna maybe need 'em

Cuz' you have ZERO respect for women
for yourself or for others
sorry for how you were raised
musta been a real mother-******
an old used up empty angry trucker
well I ain't no foolish  sucker,

No excuses justify making someone actually fear your crazy & lazy ***,

I ain't no female dog,

I'm a daughter, a Mother
a lovely loving lover,
I gotta couple loving Brothers
I have cousins & a Son,
No I ain't the one,
I'm a Sister, a friend
on whom they all can always depend
and this here voice they will defend,
or give a hand one they gladly lend,
& be with me until the end,
a message of hope to all I send,

So don't look at me that a way
Why don't you hear the words I say
& say & say?
you are such a CREEP,
I don't know at night
I don't know how you ever, ever get good sleep,

A constant loser,
such wicked bad, bad verbal abuser
a drunken, drugged out
& broke-down, low-down,
get outta my town abuser,
in Brooklyn you'd even be worse,
a lowly hooser,
I ain't gonna be your lil' **** poetic muser
perhaps a ride, oh look right here,
here's a waiting empty cruiser,

Thank you dear sweet poet
& betcha didn't even know it,
cuz I didn't get to show it,
take this man right here,
yes him, take him my dear,
a bumpy ride ain't all you gotta fear,

He's the one in the foggy drunken stooper,
I really, really wish,
it was just a silly, silly blooper,
my rugged righteous local Trooper

Saving souls & the defenseless
his job is just so relentless,
imprisonment should not be for all,
so when they get a call
Notta emergency, maybe technically,
still, State Police
-how can I help you?

Especially where I am supposed to feel most comfortable & safe,

Shouldn't feel like your skin is crawling
you don't get to me
you can't,
I'm all done with all the bawling,
but respect & justice
are
for every
ONE of us,

You must love going back to jail
& you're going to have a good long tale
to tell in there so go ahead & share
I really couldn't care, at all
but,
I do,
I couldn't care much more about myself
or about right & wrong
or care any less about you,
what you SEE as fair?

My pen, is poetic justice,
there's a poison in my pen
you should be most terrified
whilst I'll be feelin really ' Zen

Poison darts might be all right for bad animals,
Or ones who just need to be put back into the wild
who act like a completely ignorant adult child,
but you know better than that,
Sometimes I might wanna
put it in a poison apple for someone,
like you,
but no,

I bleed & I bleed,
so go ahead  
& read, read & read
I'm not a tattle,
this is a just a truly poetic need,
just another weary battle,
with theives who believe,
& believe in their unending greed
their very, bad, bad misdeeds
ones we mustn't,
we mustn't trust just words
action SPEAK the

LOUDEST

The Thunder Rolls,

Just write, I hear
behind all the painful memories & fear
that frightened girl in a corner
Everything is heightened,
I tried, I tried to warn her,
like a beautiful storm
but never, ever did I scorn her,

As hearts skip,
hear my battle yip
here's a friendly lil' tip,

She tells how human leopards,
apparently,
don't change their stupid spots
better run she says,
a fire of hell it might be kinda hot,
& an appealing prospect you are most definitely, definitely not,

& Don't worry I'm keeping track
you can act sorta nice at times,
but respect is what you seriously lack
& I'm not taking your targeted attack,

Soooo yeah,
& guess what I got?
Take a stab, go ahead, just give it a shot,
patience she ain't the one I got,
my fired feet are feeling plenty hot,


Just take a wild guess
it ain't a wild hair across my ***,

You got as good a chance at guessing my answer
as understanding my personal boundaries

I have two things actually for you
1 is not a ****** "favor"
or "servicing"
the other is
a real BIG surprise?


ZERO tolerance.

Cherie Nolan
FML this stuff REALLY happens?  apparently.
So he says, just words?!? Not about me only, &
No police involved, yet anyway.
but still! I'm soooo furious,  Excuse curses,
I'm not a witch idk think anyway & metaphors I'm not really like that. Serious subject  & I respect all this is for everyone who loves a woman anywhere ❤
Consider a drip,
Falling from a faucet.
An effortless glide to the sink,
Plunging into the drain.
Twisting,
Turning,
Tumbling.
A skydiver’s free fall,
With out his chute.
A direct flight,
And then – the curve,
Hard,
Full,
Yucky,
Ding – ****, “ It’s the plumber he’s come to fix the sink.”
Miceal Kearney Sep 2010
i

It took three of us to pull her out
onto steel-float-finished concrete —
where her mother; BNNZ-0031U
fell from GXA339605 —
a little black Limousin heifer
later to be Christened
IE18576-0426.
Shortened to Patch.

Like my nephew Jamie
he’ll never know dial-up.
Imagine … I lived 27 years B.FB.
(Before Facebook.)


ii

If a cow calves down successfully —
that’s no guarantee you’ll end up with a cheque —
they’re moved to the postnatal paddock.
Almost the furthest field back,
gives junior a peak at the future fields
they’ll someday graze.
Provided they live long enough.

One year, the tour had entered the 3rd Hill Field
which has 8 gates, the cow knew which one.
I was only here to open and close the gates.
So she checked her mirrors
then indicated left. Migratory.
Junior, on-the-other-hand
didn’t quite know what to do
so floored it; head-on
into un-suspecting gate.

It was like in the cartoons,
something would fall on someone’s head,
they’d walk away like an accordion.

I nearly died laughing
5000 times funnier than castrating lambs
I swear to God.


iii

They came into my world and leave
from the shed

I like to think that there word for the shed,
when translated would mean pain —
between being de-horned; castrated;
belted with sticks; stobbed with needles
and yucky medicine rammed down their throats.  
Then weaned: no more mommy from now on.

Let back out, having weathered their 1st winter.
Yearlings; grazing different field.
Their 2nd summer at grass — according to the book —
is where they’ll experience Compensatory Growth.
When the gate up to the Rock is closed,
that’s the end of the road for them.
We finish the cattle here.
Well used to gates by then.

That’s all it is really; a series of galvanised gates
opening and closing in conjunction
with a selected grazing rotation.
One cycle around 62.4 hectares.


iv

There’s only one reason
cows are moved in with the cattle —
well, yea there’s the other reason too,
but primarily —
to keep Romeo away from Juliet.

At this age, there elders are generally knackered,
probably mastitis in more than one ***.

In the Beef Book in college,
cull cows are referred to as ‘canners’
as that’s where most of them end up —
in tins of dog food.


v

It was 17 years ago, Patch ran into that gate.
I’ve seen her go from bullied springer to bully.
She’s taking a trip with the cattle today.

I wonder did she know
that IE18576-0851 was hers
from last year. I like to think so.
And everyone of her offspring,
all lived to be killed.
Only space for that in my notebook.

Mart starts at 10, it’s 8.30am
waiting for Lynsky.
All my years loading cattle,
it’s never once been raining.

And calves in fields over
contently ****.
Looking for comments and feedback please.
Springer: a cows first calf.
Cweeta Cwumble Apr 2016
I.

Blurry green and brown shapes rush past me
at the speed of light, i spin around and around.
Trees, people and playground equipment blend together
in a whirlwind, i am spinning around so fast
i think i might die.
My small hands grip the edges of the black rubber tire.
i squeeze my eyes shut,
thinking that might make the dizziness stop
but it only makes it worse. Pain enters
my fingertips - my arms are ripping apart.
Still, i hold on. i’m afraid
that if i let go my head will hit the ground and my neck will snap.
i hear my brother’s laughter swirling around my head.
i want to beg him to stop the spinning
but i know that crying and pleading only makes this game last longer.
When i asked him to play this wasn’t what i had in mind.
So i wait quietly.
This will all be over soon.

II.

Darkness is all around me.
The one tiny hole near the lid of the toy box allows
only a sliver of light into my little wooden prison.
i run my fingers along the dark walls
beside me and all around me, feeling
the grains of the unfinished wood.
My finger catches a sliver and it stings
but i don’t cry because
crying only makes this game last longer.
The old toy box groans under the weight of my brother’s body.
i can hear his fingers mashing the Nintendo controller
and his feet kicking against the outside of the box.
When i asked him to play, this wasn’t what i had in mind.
If i wait quietly, he will eventually get bored
and this will all be over soon.

III.

The grass is wet and yucky underneath
my body, cold and slimy.
Rows of houses watch in judgement
against black suburban sky,
their inhabitants fast asleep and safe in their beds
while i lie here with this strange man’s ***** hands around my neck.
How did i get here? A few too many rounds
of *****-fueled drinking games,
each sip burning up a piece of my awareness
until all i can comprehend is his heavy body
on top of me, his cold, unfamiliar eyes.
When i asked him to play, this wasn’t what i had in mind.
Each time my ragdoll head smacks the ground,
the sickening sound bounces between my eardrums.
He could easily ragdoll me to death.
i pray someone will step outside and end this game,
but screaming will only make him panic,
and wild animals can be unpredictable when cornered.
So i wait quietly and hope
this will all be over soon.
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Salmabanu Hatim Jun 2019
Cockroach,  Cockroach , what are you doing in my soup,
In the kitchen I was playing hoop la hoop,
And I fell in you soup mister,
It's hot and I am getting blisters,
Scoop me with your spoon,
Before I swoon.
Please don't shout or scream,
I will be thrown out of the kitchen of my dream,
Filthy and messy,
With rotten fish, slimy and smelly,
Red meat in blood,
And fungi on sauces and salads with mould,
Never scrubbed,the kitchen,
For thousands of us it's heaven.
Be a pal,
Go away with your gal,
At least I did you a favour,
Not eating in this yucky place forever.
25/6/2019
Monisha Jun 2021
I am a coffee mug,
Earthy, clayey, rotund and pouty.

I feel loved, embraced and wanted by you most times, other times I wonder.

I would rather be in your hands, kissing your lips and at least by your side in the outdoors or by the soft yellow light by your bedside where you linger with me and the brew lost in your thoughts or a beautiful book.

I live in harmony with your favourite blue wooden tray- my carriage, the small silver spoon- to stir up a storm and create music in me, and that cane worn out coaster that fits my round ample bottoms  so well.

I dream of holding magical coffee brews from lands close and far, dark.
Robust, wholesome that would make you moan in delight.

I sometimes dread that you read too much in wellness and what if you get influenced to drink less of coffee and fill me up with some detox potion, oh I worry about that so!

I am so majestic, grand and covetable and you love me so, so many options you have,
but to me is always where you go.

I stay awake humming while you sleep, in the morning I pour love into my crevices to welcome the brew just right for you.

The best thing I have done is to never give up on you but I just reciprocate what you do too💕

I sometimes carried brews so yucky for  you,
Despite your love, I feel guilty of needing constant validation from you.

My favourite time is bringing in the dawn together with you or watching the rain while you lovingly caress me watching the pitter patter of  raindrops on your windowsill.

The point of my life is to spread joy and give lovingly and empty myself for you.

I would like to be remembered as your forever favourite, giving, loving, being held till my last crack and then you make me into art to lie by your bedside  as your favourite coaster to welcome the new one
but I will be your forever one☕️
Brew-tea-ful start to your day!
Still Crazy Jun 2014
for Beau

this mixte bag of nutty facts,
compote of this's and that's,
fragrant but yucky tasting potpourri,
sordid assortment of
seemingly unseemly
random collection of
facts, whoppers,
recipes and formulae, and his 'n her
stories (my fav!)
useless motorized drivel,
running around my head

that you have with me creme-filled,
data conglomerated,
transformed by mongol hordes of grey cells
urged on, nay transformed,
by **** and beer into
a magnificent miscellaneous mile of jumble,
virtuous and verifiable grab bag of
ever so humble,
tuneful melodies of a medley of
snatches and patches
of Jagger and Liszt,
a verifiable pastiche of
vital and downright dumb
Factors and Factoids,

I thank you suchly muchly*

musta taken years, maybe even
decades to collect and codify,
this assemblage of verifiable factoids,
after-all, took you twelve to
feed me in eye dropper ingestible quantities!

though with Wiki this and Wiki that,
I coulda save us all some time,
and since it is all on the Internet,
and any way 99% I forgot
like a cell phone number

no matter, I can reads and counts
and writes term papers downloaded,
but caught my eye you wrote
of a mutton stew denominated as
hotchpotch,
but we variant truants,
ici, aux Etats-Unis, on dit
and spell our salmagundi as
hodgepodge

but in summary summation,
thanks for teaching me creative thinking,
for without this skill,
I would but be,
a tool
of Wikipedia
and not its creator

P.S.  It's gadzooks,
not gad zooks,
according to Wikitionary,
even them Oxford fellas agree,
tee hee,
you could look it up
on the internetsky,
Teach....
Ember Evanescent Oct 2014
1 Screaming at all hours, sleep is my enemy. My greatest fear is loud sounds and bright lights.
2 Daddy is a tall giant and the smartest man in the whole wide world, mommy is the best mommy ever. Also, touching the fire on birthday candles is not allowed. Or singing at the table. Or watching scary commercials because mommy is tired of me waking her up at 3AM with my nightmares about the big hungry man in the commercial. My greatest fear is being alone in the dark.
3 I’m still too young to know real hurting, I’m unscarred and the greatest tragedy I’ve experienced is a skinned knee and having my favorite stuffed animal taken from me overnight for bad behaviour. My greatest fear is the day I get married and have to live away from my parents.
4 I’m too short to see myself in the bathroom mirror, the counter is in the way. My greatest fear is the monsters under my bed.
5 I have a birthday party and invite every person I know because I’m friends with everyone. My greatest fear is being in trouble with my teacher for talking in class.
6 I’m a big girl now, I can help mommy with dinner…by tasting her ingredients. I don’t understand why those people on the show daddy watches called The News **** each other. Why does anybody hate anyone? Why are grownups crying? Big girls don’t cry. My greatest fear is quicksand, but fortunately I have multiple plans on how to escape quicksand.  
7 Daddy is teaching me how to ride a bike without training wheels and it is scary and I’ve fallen off alot. He told me he wouldn’t let go! I can’t believe he lied to me! I cry and cry but look! Look, I’m doing it mommy! Look! CRASH. I’m starting to read big girl books more easily now. No pictures and only words isn’t as bad as I used to think. One day, I want to be a writer. My greatest fear is falling off my bike.
8 Boys are yucky, and not every girl is my friend anymore. It’s strange, the girls I used to play with have their own friends now. I’m not one of them anymore. A girl told me I was ugly and I felt this odd feeling in my chest like I was falling. Why did it hurt? The only things that are supposed to be able to hurt you are things you can see like knives (which I’m not allowed to use) or falling down, I thought. A girl tells me I am dumb. What a bad word to say, I’m NEVER allowed to say it. It is a mean and a bad word. When I grow up, I’ll never swear. I thought the bad guys were the only mean people in the world? I thought they wore black capes and lived in scary glowing castles like in the movies. The pretty girls in my class who look like princesses are saying things to each other and me that sound like the bad guy’s line in a movie? Why is this happening? I wish on the star every night like princesses do for the girls to stop hurting each other with their words. My greatest fear is that my wish won’t come true.
9 Did you know that fairy tales aren’t real? Did you know that it matters how your hair looks and where you buy your clothes and how many friends you have? Did you know other people care about what you have for lunch? Apparently, those things are true. I don’t like everyone anymore and not everyone likes me. People say some things to me that hurt my feelings and I make someone else cry because I said something just as mean back because I was angry. I didn’t mean to hurt them even though they hurt me. I do things I regret. Am I a bad guy now too? My greatest fear is of becoming a bad guy.
10 I am not a little girl anymore. Girls are turning on girls. Boys are liking girls. Not me of course, but other girls. Suddenly, everyone thinks they are a teenager. Someone calls me fat. Someone says I’m ugly. Someone says I’m dumb. Someone says I’m weird. I like a boy, but he could never like me. Less and less friends, life is growing uglier and far, far colder. Quicksand did not turn out to be as big a problem as I imagined when I was little. Suddenly, I grow up far faster than I should, because if I don’t, I’ll spend way too much time crying. The boys are playing a game at lunchtime, who would you marry if you had to marry someone in the class. One of the boys says he’d: “pick someone stupid like: My name.” Why did my name finish his sentence? “Then I’d shoot her in her sleep after we were married.” He finds out I heard what he said. He tries to talk to me, to apologize but I don’t want to speak to him. I refuse to cry over this. I’m not a baby. But it secretly hurts a lot. I never speak to him ever again. Not a word the whole year, or the next or ever. My greatest fear is being unwanted. And I am.
11 Boys are mean and girls are heartless and cruel. Girls hate me, I hate girls. I hate myself, I hate school, I hate hating everything. I feel worthless, why is everybody else so pretty and perfect? I haven’t been invited to anyone except my best (and only) friend’s birthday party for 3 years. I get invited to a sleepover with girls who don’t like me and I don’t really like them but I don’t know them too well I just know their names and when they think I am asleep I hear them start to talk in-depth about why I am ugly. Scarred. Humilated. Scarred. Broken. Mostly scarred. Why am I so ugly and worthless and fat and stupid? My greatest fear is the monsters inside of my head.
12 New school, new friends, new life. So happy. So, so happy and free. Friends who actually care about me. Friends who heal me. Closer than friends, like sisters. Not alone anymore. My greatest fear is losing all that.
13 Everything is perfect, and beautiful and I am so happy I could cry. I laugh all day and love my life. Until May. Then it fall apart. Jealousy, lies, family problems at home, pasts collide, friends are fake and sisters forever fades into a broken promise. I hate my friend but God, I love her like a sister even though I loathe her so much. It hurts it hurts and I start to feel ugly again. I scar myself, I do terrible thing to my body and myself. I only have a few friends left, but now I know who is loyal, and who never was. My greatest fear is everything that is happening to me as my world crashes, crumbles and burns all around me.

Many years pass, but my mind, soul, and heart are unchanged. Though my age grows larger, I never grow past it all. I’m reliving it all over and over, I still hate myself. Chained to 13.

Please repost if you are trapped in the past too.
Comment! I love to read other people's interpretations and thoughts on my work!
Please repost if you are trapped in the past too.
Comment! I love to read other people's interpretations and thoughts on my work!
ShamusDeyo Mar 2015
Everytime I hear No, its always .......MY FAULT
As the Brain drags me down this train of illogic
Anxiety Loops in unending Circles Spun to the Tragic
What can go wrong, then to feel like.......
Life has ***** me, And why is it always my Fault

The FIST FLEW out of Nowhere, Sucker punched*
Slow motion falling as a..........
Childs head bounces off the ground
Awaking to throbbing Pain,
My Pants around my Knees,
And why is it always my Fault..

For those who know what I mean
Others can't know what we've seen
Even if Its both Bad and Yucky
*Childhood is for the lucky..........JMF  9/28/14
I did a revision of an earlier Piece...

I realized I never had a childhood
Pedro Garcia May 2016
Tonight the very notion that steals my mental devotion, is that chance play a motion in that commotion concerning whether one receives a demotion or a promotion
To be lucky or  unlucky! It must feel a little yucky, perhaps a bit sucky, that your ability to forsee outcomes is a tad mucky
You might play your hand and find your decision be grand, or life may demand that you be reprimand, where things may not go as planned as you receive a backhand
Hell you may just strike gold, where you luck begins to unfold, where your wealth was withhold, it may just so happen you behold your gold increase eightfold!
People like to be upset due to all the others they've met who don't seem to sweat and carry no debt, people who fret thinking they deserve a corvette or a big shiny jet that they'll get when they win the grand luck roulette.
Still I think that it shows that even if life blows, when the sky fills with crows and your luck seems to have froze, luck is just a fact of life that nobody knows
With the good comes the bad, with the happy the sad, with the boring the rad, that luck is quite a fad
Just know that whether you're hung out to dry or live in Versailles, whether you hit the bulls-eye or things go awry, have everything money can buy or just barely scrape by, you just can't deny your life is at the mercy of life's invisible die
This is actually really tacky but I'm experimenting.
Liz Devine Jan 2012
Mama said be careful
Don’t talk to strangers
And don’t walk alone
Mama said to sit up straight
Keep your elbows off the table
And lock the doors when you get home

Mama said be patient
Be polite
Be a lady
Mama said not to sit on the grass
Not to stay in the sun
And go out only if it’s shady

Mama said be a good girl
But this good girl’s got to roam
This girl’s gotta spread her wings
And fly away from her home

Mama said a lot of things
Of this I know is true
But mama never said nothin’
‘Bout stayin away from you

Mama never said you’d hurt me
Or do me so wrong
She never told of your sweet kisses
Or the sadness you’d put in my song

Mama said that boys lie
But you were different; you were a man
Mama should have told me
“Girl, run as fast as you can!”

Mama didn’t tell me
But Ima tell mine
That men like you are icky, yucky things
And ain’t no better than swine
Alexis K Dec 2017
(To the tune of the 12 Days of Christmas) *

On the first day of Christmas my mommy made me
               A batch of my favorite cookies

On the second day of Christmas my mommy made me
                                           Two apple pies

On the third day of Christmas my mommy made me
                               Three basted turkeys

On the fourth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                                  Four deviled eggs

On the fifth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                           Five pumpkin pies!!!

On the sixth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                                    Six honey hams

On the seventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
                             Seven gooey brownies

On the eighth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                         Eight malted milkshakes

On the ninth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                           Nine banana muffins

On the tenth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                                    Ten yucky yams

On the eleventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
                           Eleven pickled peppers

On the twelfth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                               Twelve ears of corn
From a couple of foodies to a couple of more! Merry Christmas / Happy holidays.
THIS WAS DONE WITH LAURA KICIELINSK it's both of our works.
Mike Hauser Jun 2015
The guy at the diner failed to mustard Jake's hot dog
As he was eating it he felt as cold as a marsh frog
Yucky was the flavor without condiment
Chomping it down, a tasteless torment

As the fries on his plate were doing the backstroke
Having a jolly swim day in a puddle of oil
Asked for industrial towels to wipe up the slick
Before it caught wind of the Environmentalists

A complaint has been filed about their bill of fare
Nothing served over the counter would we wish to share
Placards will be shown over the Diner's facade
Warning customers of this ecological disregard

They won't water down their words like the Diner their drinks
Before you enter in you'll stop and think
About the Blue Plate Special with Salmonella on the side
Do you prefer your Botulism broiled or would you like it fried

Gastronomic delights such as they will make you pay
A stint in the infirmary is sure to come your way
With a tossed salad of pain, relievers, and antibiotics
Which none of the above will be deliciously exotic

If you can take the cooks looks and stomach the smells
Along with the service that's slower than snails
There's normally a coupon in the daily mail
Buy one get one free!
Ahhhh.....what the hell
Judypatooote Sep 2014
Can you imagine?
The time when being ask
To stay after school
To clean the chalkboards
And erasers was fun.

Can you imagine?
Waiting for the teacher
To pick you to
Take papers to the principle.
Yes, that was special.
And i never thought to peek.

Can you imagine?
Learning to do the waltz
And the foxtrot in gym?
Boys on one side of gym
And girls on the other.
Pick a partner...
No, no, boys are yucky.
That was grade school
When they really were.

I can't imagine not growing up
In the 40/50's
With kick the can,
Home made circuses
And running down to a friends house
And calling,
Can you come out to play?

I can't imagine not having a memory.

By judy
Bell'Alta Jul 2013
Sometimes I feel like people are trying to pacify me, with a pacifier, when I'm actually throwing up.  But they don't see it. They literally do not see it.  And then they get mad at me for refusing to take the pacifier when it really isn't helping at all, in fact, it's making it worse.  You don't help people when you're not helping them.  When someone is throwing up, you don't give them something that will keep it in.  You help them throw up, you help them get that yucky stuff out of them, you get a towel, or a bowl, or take them to a toilet.  You rub their back, get them some tea, wash their face.  It's not pretty and it's not fun, but it's helping.  Pacifiers are quick and easy and take little to no effort on your part.  But when someone is throwing up, that takes patience, endurance, love, empathy, sacrifice, kindness, determination.  If you can't help, don't try to help at all, it may make it worse.

I am not talking about service here, I am and I'm not.  I'm talking about when someone is in a real problem, and they need the right help; if you can't give that right help, don't give the wrong help.   When someone is throwing up, don't give them a pacifier.
This isn't a poem, but I wanted to put up here anyways, something I wrote.
sarah minks Dec 2011
Morning again
A little after five A.M.
This is Christmas Eve day
There is no chimney here
To hang stockings by with care
So hanging them on the wall instead
And filling then with nothing
I simply make peppermint coffee
Having neither the ability or requirement of sleep
In my mind I have vague and dim recollections of Christmases past
Struggling to cope with the past
And even the present
I let go the good memories as well
And all memories are hazy
And afraid I have Alzheimer’s or MS
I long to recall my pleasant childhood memories
Blurry snippets of clothes and Christmas themed socks
And angel ornaments, every year an angel
And the big expensive gifts my little brother
THE MESSIAH got  
But now I write and remember the laughter
And the family stories
Mom read to us
Mom Sarah and Jamie
“The Night Before Christmas”
And “Santa Berry and The Snard”
And at the bottom of all stockings
At all Christmas’s Past
An orange and some Hershey Kisses
And I barely like Hershey Kisses
But I still ate them
Just like I ate black lickerish Jelly Beans on Easter
And those yucky, old people, candies in the brown and orange wrappers
On Halloween
I remember my aunts and uncles sending gifts
And my grandparents sent checks
Children cannot cash checks…sigh
And Hearing my father’s beautiful sermon
At Midnight Mass
And waiting for so long for him to come home from church
On Christmas morning
And hearing my mother shuffle around trying to get everything just right
James and I dying to come down stairs
“You can’t come downstairs just yet Santa is doing his finishing touches”
My Mother would yell up the stairs
Expecting us still to believe
When James and I begged repeatedly
I guess it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a chimney
Or anything to fill my stockings with
And Making an genuine effort to stop the Ghost Of Christmas Yet To Come
Because I have now regained
My fondest Christmas memories
And that will bring me comfort and joy
Hallelujah!
دema flutter Nov 2021
I cant sleep. My sports bra feels too tight. My hair feels tacky. My lips feel dry. My skin feels yucky. Im tired but bored.
muteD Jan 2018
Sometimes I wish I didn't exist.
Who would want to exist in this world anyways?
Living a life of hurt and loneliness
Because no matter what you do, no one will ever stick around to see you make it out of this disastrous and heartless cold world or not.

Oh how I hate the word
'Alone'.
Because that's what I've been feeling lately.
"You aren't alone."
"I'm here for you."
"There are others going through this too."
Yada, yada, yada.
Those are just words that spill like a fallen drink on the kitchen counter.
Emptying its' contents like you would your stomach after hearing that your brother faces up to 25 years for something you wish he didn't do.

Is that too personal for you?
Oh, I can get much more personal.

How about uprooting your life for the second time?
Second time? Second time.
For a parental figure who doesn't even act like you were once in her.
Your heartbeat mixing with hers in this entrancing dance of rhythm.
Picking favorites and avoiding communicating with you because who needs to communicate with her own flesh and blood anyways?
Forcing you to look for tender and warm maternal affection and direction elsewhere because how could she possible show love if she's more lost than you are?

Not personal enough?
I'm just warming up.

I've been so independent for so long.
I never knew I could learn to depend on someone so much.
Again.
But, I did.
And I'm sorry if this starts to slowly turn into one of those lovey dovey yucky yucky poems.
But, I've finally met my match.
Someone who laughs at the same things as me.
Someone who takes care of me and sends me those cute
"Did you eat?"
"Did you make it home?"
"I miss you."
Texts.
Someone who has seen me broken and beaten down and instead of running away at full speed,
He cupped my face with his hands and forced me to look at him,
Through the snot and tears,
And told me
"Do you see me? I will not leave you. I am here."

And that my friends,
Gave me back my will.
My will to live.
My will to survive.
The will I lost so long ago.
The will I never knew I had.
But, don't let that "will" fool you.
I'm still learning how to depend on myself.
I'm still learning how to love my life.
I'm still learning how to want to live.

If that wasn't personal enough for you,
Then nothing ever will be.
I just wanted to take a moment and get a little personal.

— The End —